The Embrace
by Aladar
Summary: Thirteen tales for thirteen clans- on the one thing all Kindred share.
1. The Innocent

Thirteen onehosts for thirteen clans. A project that just popped into my head and I'd be really glad if you all would read and review. Any comments appreciated. :)

_**The Innocent**_

_"There is no aphrodisiac like innocence."- Jean Baudrillard_

The first time he laid his eyes upon her was in spring.

May was creeping closer to its death. The nighttime air, sharpened by its usual chill, was filled with the aroma of flowers carried on the back of the western wind. Even though the rays of the sun had long since parted with the city, the heart of Paris was as brimming with life as ever. The spacious parks had emptied-out and the, seemingly never-ending, boulevards of the city were populated mostly by people heading headfirst towards the nearest watering hole.

Behind the golden-lit windows of clubs and inns, cafés and houses of lesser repute, the denizens of this city lived their lives with naught a care in the world.

It was the natural order of things. As long as there was wine to be spilled, it mattered not whether one was prince or pauper. The fiery taste was excellently adept at washing away any care- if only while the evening lasted. The taverns' walls may as well have been bastions and ramparts. The outside world's ills had no place whatsoever in those little realms of joy. And, by the same school of thought, those afflicted by such ills weren't welcome either.

Paris had no spare glitz and glitter for all too many of her unfortunate children. The unwanted were treated with a mix between apathy at best and disdain at worst. They were the greyed-out loners living on the fringes, beneath ornate bridges and on painted benches. They were more than any one man could count- not that anyone wanted to, lest they'd be forced to acknowledge their existence. With scarcely an effort, the rest of the city's own- clad in reds and greens and goldens- pushed the unfortunates further and further away. Loving mother to some and wicked step-mother to many, Paris- as any great city of its age- heartlessly tried to sweep under the rug those who threatened to dim her glow. Still, the Children of the City endured. They always did- be it because of resourcefulness or precisely because being the undesired meant they knew intimately each and every one of the city's whims.

He lived in that all too common gap between the classes- beggar to some and duke to many. The ones above him pursed their lips every time they caught a glimpse of his aged coat's fluttering fringes. The less fortunate caressed it with calloused hands and admired the patchwork palette of silks and velvets which adorned it. Be it looks of scorn or jealousy, he took them all in stride. The man had stopped being a boy quite a few winters ago- but that child-like glimmer of hope and curiosity stubbornly refused to leave his eyes. He called himself an _artist_, annoyed at how the rest of the world seemed hell-bent on brushing him off as merely a 'painter'.

As if his creations were nothing more than fanciful sketches and doodles!

Still, there was no place for animosity in the Artist's heart. Such feelings- like many others- to him were fleeting at best. The flames of youth renewed as quick as they devoured and so the man spent his life living each day as if it would have been his last. He had shared his dry bread with that band of rascals living under Sena's bridge- and he had dined on the same table as counts and barons all the same. He had shared the warmth of a blind musician's hearth and had spent nights huddled safely next to the roaring fireplace in a spacious well-lit tavern.

A favored, albeit often mistreated, child of the city- he knew all of her moods. Caring and mean, welcoming and distant; he thought there was nothing left that the city could surprise him with.

On that night, under the serene light of the full moon enveloping the city, the Artist was rushing towards one of the wealthier locales. If someone had bothered to spare a glance in his direction, they would have noticed nothing but a blur of faded colors, dashing under the flickering glimmer of the lampposts. He was out of breath, the hazel curls framing his face- in disarray. A trio of paintings were clutched under his arm, held at an awkward angle, and threatened to slip away with each and every step he took. The Artist dared stop and rest only when his eyes, the deep color of evergreen woods, finally came upon the tavern's door.

Like an ocean warmed by the summer's sun, light and music poured over him when he pushed it open. All too busy with the ongoing festivities, few spared a glimpse for the newcomer. The Artist closed the door behind him, his breath still noticeably quickened, and headed straight towards one large table in the back. It didn't take much time for anyone to notice that the usual clientele of that particular establishment was noticeably well-off. The wine filling the glasses was older than the oldest man alive and not measly chickens, but roasted lambs took central place at most tables.

The only reason he had been allowed to flaunt his trade there was because he knew the owner- a bastard of some count or baron- from when the Artist had still been a palace doctor's son. Said Owner was at the helm of the table he was headed to, deeply immersed in a heated discussion with a portly, mustachioed man seated next to him. The Marquis indeed looked astonishingly like a walrus, but the Artist's would have shaken the hand of any other animal willing to pay him enough for his paintings just as eagerly. The other occupant of the table- the Marquis' wife- contrasted sharply with her husband. She was lean and almost… leathery- the very image of youth gone by and wasted.

There wasn't much bargaining to be had. The Owner- knowing full well he would get a cut- had negotiated a meaty enough price. But it was at precisely that moment when paintings and money were changing hands, when he saw _her_.

He mistook her for a ghost at first, the spirit of some princess who had no place in this mundane and boring world.

She wore a simple white dress- and yet her image could somehow put crowned queens, with all their jewelry and ballroom dresses, to shame. Her figure was lithe, dainty, almost… _faerie_. Elfin? The Artist would have only mumbled had anyone asked him to describe the girl before him. He had doubts if _girl_ was even the right thing to call her. As his eyes drifted over the curves of her dress and whatever ivory skin it dared reveal, he realized the fairytale princess was at that particular age of a barely blossomed flower.

And it was exactly a spring bouquet of flowers, neatly tucked in a dainty handbasket, she was offering from table to table. With moonlight dancing in her hair and blue eyes aglow like stars, the Flowergirl had stolen the Artist's heart without him even realizing it.

She was gone as suddenly as she had appeared, hidden behind the living walls of the tavern's rowdy crowd. The indignant 'harrumph' of the Marquise was what brought him out of his stupor and back into reality. The Artist chose to ignore how dazed his friend and newest benefactor looked as well.

He found himself visiting that particular tavern more and more afterwards. The Flowergirl turned out to be a regular as well- every first and fourth day of the week she would visit to sell her sweet-smelling stock. Her baskets ended up empty in minutes more often than not. It was no mystery why grown men always seemed to have spare money for flowers. The Artist hadn't missed the looks they gave her. Akin to the slimy tentacles of a sea monster, their eyes darted all over the petite body of his fated siren. The rich bought lavenders and roses but it was painfully clear which particular flower they really wanted to possess.

Some nights, when he too threw his money away just to be able to see that innocent smile dancing on her ruby lips, the Artist wondered if he was any different at all.

Soon enough came the summer, bringing alone copious amounts of oppressive heat. The Artist was quickly finding himself more and more frustrated. The only thing his brush wanted to paint was his muse. But no matter how many tireless days or sleepless nights he spent working on canvas after canvas, they all inevitably ended up torn apart and thrown away. Paintings he would have deemed masterpieces mere months ago now looked like nothing but trash in his eyes. No amount of work on his part could allow him to portray her truly.

It was as if something was missing- some vital, all too important part always seemed to slip away. He had no idea what it was. The images seemed so clear in his mind, sometimes he was sure he could touch her if he just so wished. But every time the Artist tried breathing them to life, the magic fell apart like a sandcastle crumbling under its own weight. The Artist finally started to realize how hopelessly in love he really was.

And the intensity of it, that searing blaze in his heart, boggled his mind.

He was no stranger to women- be it giggling handmaidens or bored noblewomen- but never before had he felt so utterly… _lost_ without someone.

One night, once again in that glamorous tavern, the Artist was sulking at his usual table and hoping to find a buyer for the last of his paintings left. It was funny- and sad- how hunger seemed to be able to be on par with any other feeling sometime. The Flowergirl crept closer, azure eyes full of child-like curiosity.

"It's beautiful," was the only thing she said before returning to her routine rounds around the building.

It took him three whole days without leaving his stifling rented room to finish the painting of his beloved. The frenzy subsided only when he could finally examine it truly and caress his creation with trembling hands.

The sapphire eyes staring into the forest-green of his own rooted him in place. Like waterfalls of liquid gold, the tresses of her hair cascaded down her body as his muse lied on her side. A crimson sheet, the same vibrant color as her slightly-parted ruby lips, covered her naked for form the waist down. Only her midsection was visible to the eyes of the beholder, colored ivory- akin to virgin snow. The Artist, still breathless, knew then and there that no greatest creation would ever spring to life from under his brush.

And so he hid the painting, that maddeningly enticing image of his beloved, away from prying eyes.

Days died and nights slipped past. Time didn't wait for no one, be it kings or their subjects, and soon enough autumn arrived. The vibrant greens adorning the treecrowns were substituted for royal reds and honey golds. The patchwork blanket of fall, so similar to his own weathered coat, soon reigned supreme across the city. Alas, the welcomed change of scenery was accompanied by a dreadful pang of chill, the bane of any unfortunate soul left to spend the night on the Parisian streets. The Artist didn't need anyone cluing him in on why exactly his beloved's visits had become so few and far between. Fear gripped his heart every time he saw how lifeless a bounty she had barely managed to gather.

The ever-present threat of cold and winter threatened to deny him his only muse's presence.

His little Flowergirl would disappear from his life, just as suddenly as she had barged into it. Lost and scared, the madness threatening to overcome him fully, the Artist had sought advice from a friend. But the Owner did nothing but laugh, offer a strong drink and whisper wicked tales of how the girl in white had long since started selling more than her usual spring-scented stock.

"Some richer folks have already tasted the fruit you are so keenly after, my friend," the nobleman's bastard had said.

Curses were uttered and glasses broken. Wine and blood mixed when the Artist's fist found their way to his longtime friend's face. Their owner, in turn, soon found himself lying flatly on the cold, hard pavement- noticeably worse for wear after the residents of the tavern had retaliated to their host's mutilation. Rivulets of tears and rain mixed on their way down the Artist's contorted face.

He took to wandering the watering holes of the city. From one end of Paris to the other, there was nary a tavern or inn he hadn't spent a night sulking in some corner, a half-empty glass of piss-poor wine in hand. Winter came and went without the Artist even noticing it. Whether the world was dead to him or it was the other way around, he neither knew nor cared. Only the newest patches added to his mantle of colors faded and nearly lost showed he paid any heed to reality at all. For months the Artist hadn't even caught a single glimpse of his beloved.

The thought that someone could even dare think a girl as pure as her could stoop down to the level of a common whore sickened him. The thought that there indeed may be a grain of truth in those wretched rumors made him want to howl and rip and tear until every street in Paris ran red with blood. Whose, he didn't even know. But not hers.

_Never_ hers.

He was close to giving up- be it on her or on his own life. The Artist made no difference between the two anymore. But then, on one moonless night in the beginning of May, he saw her again. It was in a noisy, hellhole of a dump- but then again, he saw the whole world like that those days. The inn he was currently staying was often filled to the brim with soldiers and guards and other of their brutish ilk.

He hadn't even noticed her at first, all too busy drinking the last of his money away. But the familiar murmur sweeping across the crowd and the less than purer looks glistening in the drunken eyes of those around him brought his attention to reality- and _her_- once again. She hadn't changed at all, still seemingly stuck between being a woman and being a child. The strands of her hair fluttered behind her like the trails of fallen stars as she went from table to table, a basket full of flowers clutched in hand. Their eyes met- if only for a second- and suddenly she had moved on, now giggling at the shallow jokes of a guard captain who looked ready to buy all her stock right then and there.

The scorching heat of the nearby fireplace hit the Artist in the chest- or maybe it was all the blood rushing in his heart as it threatened to burst into pieces. The Artist was yet again breathless after meeting her, indeed. But this time… this time it was for a million different reasons altogether. A million… or maybe merely one.

The night went by slowly, the hours trickling away like poison dripping down his throat. The Flowergirl was busy talking with the Captain, her eyes aglow with child-like curiosity as she listened to his obviously overblown tales of glory. The Captain droned on and on, his beady little eyes darting all across the woman's body, soaking in each and every enticing detail. And the Artist stared daggers in the Captain's back, the glass in his hand creaking faintly as he clutched it.

Wine eventually mixed with blood. The glass had finally ended up shattered, the sound of its demise drowned by the hollers and cat-calls of the Captain's posse when their leader took the Flowergirl's hand and led her up the stairs.

He was faintly aware of the innkeeper shouting in his direction, cheeks red with fury. His mind had seemingly left his body, following after the girl of his dreams- a stray limping sadly after a one-time owner. The shards dug deeper into the Artist's hand when he clutched the wooden railing. One leg moved after the other on instinct and each and every step of his seemed to bring forth a deafening groan from the smoke-stained oak beneath him. The strength of his senses fluctuated between heartbeats.

He was deaf and blind and so utterly, utterly lost.

But, at last, he could see and hear and finally- _finally_- knew what to do.

The Artist had no trouble finding the right room. The door had been left slightly ajar, a mistake of someone's lust-hazed mind. Her moans turned the contents of his veins in ice- cold enough it actually felt like burning. Golden hair spilled like sunlight down greyed-out pillows, bluest eyes unblinking. The rest of her remained hidden behind the wide back of the Captain, a monster stealing kisses from a captured princess.

The soldier, all too busy with the laces of his capture's dress, didn't notice the Artist sneaking in. There was a sword on the ground- the Captain's own, hastily discarded in his amorous pursuits. The weapon felt foreign to the Artist's untrained hands. It wasn't heavy, nor was it light. Candlelight caught on a silver pommel, a glistening blade escaping its scabbard with nary a sound. Some would have called it beautiful no doubt. But to the Artist, that lump of metal would never be extension of his arm like a brush did.

His eyes met hers. There was recognition sparkling between emerald and sapphire, an eerie sense of conclusion. It was all to end right there, in a dingy room inside a dingier inn. It was all to finally begin, a phoenix rising from a soon-to-be sacrifice's ashes. But what was to end and what to begin, the Artist had no way of knowing.

The Captain finally turned around, following the Flowergirl's gaze. There was surprise in his eyes, but even as they recognized his own weapon in the intruder's hand, there was no fear. Only anger- even annoyance- and the all too recognizable desire to put an end to a fool who wanted to steal his possession. The fact that he could relate to his victim angered the Artist even more.

A single move of his arm- one surefire stroke across a human canvas- and his opponent was no more. Blood now marred his face as well as his vision. The rainbow-colored set of patches on his coat was rapidly reddening, but he didn't mind- or care. He had eyes only for his dream, his love and mistress. The Artist's mind threatened to shatter. He was torn in two between rivaling desires strong enough to drive him mad.

A part of him wanted to wipe the blood staining her face and dress and hair, take her somewhere far away and lock her inside a stone-walled castle, away from any who could harm her.

Another part wanted to just pin her down on the bed, tear the blood-soaked dress apart and take what he so dearly wanted, finally have his little fairy princess for himself.

To him, her innocence was her greatest beauty. He was scared to even touch her- because then he knew there would be no stopping himself, no way to hold back whatever beast was urging him onwards. The Artist was painfully aware of the cruelty of such fate. It was akin to an enchanted painting, the most beautiful one ever made, cursed to be ruined the moment someone laid eyes upon it to enjoy it.

The Artist never learned which path he would have followed, had fate left him to choose alone. The Flowergirl, seemingly tired of waiting, pushed herself up and cupped his face. Her hands were cold, almost unnaturally so. Her breath was even colder, making the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. But her kiss was sweet- like cinnamon and palace garden apples, tastes of a childhood forgotten long ago. It was as if something broke inside of him. The beast was let loose, his hands clawing at her dress until it lay in pieces. Her skin was milk under moonlight, a sharp contrast to her now blood-soaked lips. The Artist was dimly aware of her hands making short work of his own clothes, too lost in the feeling of her body against his and the cold lips exploring his bloodstained face.

She arched her back as he took her, golden hair tossed back, breasts heaving with each and every thrust. Nothing else existed in his mind back then. Only two bodies intertwined in a heated embrace, kisses painting red and her nails digging raw into his back. He knew- or at least a tiny part of him did- he was ruining all he had ever dreamed and cared for. But it didn't matter anymore. This was bliss- pure, unaltered bliss- and he would have sooner died than let it end.

"A kiss for a reward," she whispered in his ear, words lost between moans. "Is only fitting, is it not?"

He had half a mind to ask or laugh, to follow through that screaming instinct and flee. But her fangs were on his neck in an instant and his blood was now hers, rivulets trailing down her naked body. Pain and pleasure mixed and mingled. The Artist was halfway aware he was dying- and that only made him want her more, increased his desire to enjoy this heaven until his final breath and journey to hell. And he did.

All until the darkness took him.

Her blood on his lips tasted bitter, like trust betrayed and washed out innocence.


	2. The Betrayer

_**The Betrayer**_

_"Betrayal is the only truth that sticks."- Arthur Miller_

The sound of the whetstone clashing with his blade was akin to a thunder's roar inside his mind. The sparks- fiery red and golden yellow- were like lightning cutting apart the darkness for mere seconds, which felt like eternity. The only other light came from the full moon, bright and heavy in the cloudless sky. He dared not look up, lest his mind started playing games with him at the most unfortunate moment. The grinning skull of the Man on the Moon was the last sight he needed to witness before proceeding with his task.

The Janissary's sigh was drowned by the ghostly wail of the whetstone as he once again slid it down his curved sword. Once more, the brief shower of sparks illuminated stoic blue eyes and thin lips pursed amidst a trimmed blond beard. The man's expression, his features seemingly carved out of stone, contrasted sharply with his position. Perched atop the railing of one of the highest towers of the royal palace, one leg dangling idly outside, the Janissary observed the City of Kings down below with cold indifference. The signs of life were few and far between. Only lone candles and the light of that thrice-cursed moon illuminated the city hidden under the veil of the night. Without the hustle of its daily life, Istanbul looked like a city of the dead. The Mediterranean and the Black Sea, bordering the capital on both sides, only served to strengthen that comparison. Their waters were frightfully still, like mirrors reflecting only the nothingness of the black abyss above.

The Janissary knew it was all an illusion, tricks of a doubtful mind turning against its owner. The city was just as alive as ever. But the drunken brawls and bawdy songs just couldn't reach his ears. The sneaky thieves, with their catlike grace, could easily stay hidden from his eyes. And a thousand other things, perhaps, prowled the sunless city without him knowing it. But it was not his place to unveil them. His task was clear. Or at least it should have been. All his life he had been taught to keep his oaths and follow his promises. And, somehow, no one had bothered to teach him what to do if they contradicted each other.

The man knew not if he was the one in the wrong. He didn't know if there was some hierarchy of vows he was supposed to adhere to in such situations. His mind was clouded in doubt. Protect and destroy. Simple tasks for simple men. But who was to be protected and who was to be destroyed, the Janissary couldn't decide. He was the blade that shields, the only concrete existence in that ocean of lies surrounding him.

_Protect your family._

The first lesson he learned. The first lesson anyone earns.

But this one had been drilled twice inside his mind. Once, a lifetime ago, in that village hidden deep inside a mountainous embrace. His memories were muddled, like droplets of blood diluted amongst the ocean's waves. There were scattered pictures, sounds and scents remembered by a boy long since dead to the world. Another life, another name. The boy's father had been staunch and stern like the grey giants surrounding his birthplace. And yet there were memories of kind words uttered around a warm hearth, a heavy, yet gentle hand patting a little boy's head. But there was no face he could assign to that memory. The memory of the boy's mother was fainter still. There were songs in a language he had been forced to forget, gentle embraces and whispers granting him courage in the nights when the winter winds howled outside like starving wolves. Her face was one yet thousand. Every time he strained his mind and tried remembering, she slipped even further away. Her eyes were the green of verdant forests, the blue of clear skies, the black of a summer night. Her hair was a golden waterfall, the red of autumn leaves and the black of a raven's wing. Her face was pale and tan, thin and plump.

Amongst all the ghosts inhabiting his memories, hers was the only one he knew he'd never- _ever_- truly recall. The only concrete proof that the woman had even existed was the memory of her screams when the soldiers had come to take the blood tribute. On that day, at the ripe old age of five and a half, the boy had learned his people were slaves even without collars around their necks and chains dangling from their limbs.

The boy's father had disagreed, axe in hand. The soldiers had treated him more as a nuisance then a threat. His weapon had soon fallen from the deathgrip of a chopped-off limb. The man himself had been forced to his knees, torn clothes stained red with his own blood. With a sword to his mother's throat, the boy had been given a knife and a choice. A life for a life. A thousand thoughts had rushed through the boy's mind. A thousand had been left unheard and unseen, drowned out by his screams and tears. Someone else had made the choice for him on that day.

The weight of his father, after he had jumped onto the knife, had felt like a mountain.

They had taken the boy to a new family then, a _real_ family tasked by his real Father, the sultan, to educate him into the ways of _his_ people. The boy had been too tired to disobey. At least that memory was crystal clear still- feeling you were at least sixty at the age of merely six. But the years had taken his fetters along with his memories.

The first lesson they thought him was to protect his new family.

The boy had been killed and from that blood tribute a man had been born. The Janissary had quickly grown to be a part of his new family. The sons of millers and woodcutters, of fishermen and hunters. The sons of slaves from the Black Sea in the east to the Adriatic in the west, from the Danube in the north to the Mediterranean in the south. They were the Children of the Porte, overseen and commanded personally by their imperial Father.

The glory of the corps echoed far and wide, and tales of its members' ferocity farther still. They were weeds torn away from their roots, growing like parasites on the blood of the hundred nations they had been chosen from. They were the slaves with golden collars, allowed to wield the whip. But even when their memories of stolen childhoods were lost, those around them always remembered. Those recruited by the _devshirme_ were strangers amongst anyone other than themselves. An upstart slave was always a slave, regardless of his garments and his newly chosen name.

The only thing the hatred did was make them stronger. They strove to thrive to spite them. The janissaries carried on a legacy of a dozen generations, the vengeance of slaves turned masters. They amassed wealth and lands, climbed the hierarchy of the Porte, made their illusionary chains into whips of their own. And not long after, the sultan himself had cried out against being turned into a slave of his own subjects.

And so the corps had schemed amongst themselves, hatched plots concocted inside their ruler's own home. The sultan was largely still a child- certainly not old enough to be called a man. But the seeds of his doubt in their fair-weather loyalty were too dangerous to be left to bloom. He was to be deposed of by his own guard, like the emperors of old by their trusted Praetorians.

The Janissary didn't doubt the necessity of such a decision. It was treason either way. The only choice they gave him was who to betray, his family or his imperial Father. The bitter taste of a boy's memory, about a choice more or less the same, felt like ashes in his mouth. So many vows he had sworn in his life. They were meant to have been his lifelines, the guidelines through which his life had meant to be played out. But in reality every promise had just introduced another knot amongst the gnarled web of conflicting loyalties which marred the Janissary's life.

His family needed protection once more. And yet again Father's life could pay for it.

_Obey God._

Yet another creed that was supposed to be as clear as the waters of a mountain lake. But the ripples which erupted when the boy had forcedly spat at the Cross at their orders had quickly turned the stillness into an ocean amidst a storm. Their imperial Father's right to rule was nothing less than divine. So wouldn't deposing him mean betraying the Crescent as well? How many infidels would they need to slaughter to clear such a stain on their souls? Such questions burned inside the Janissary's hazed mind. Of his doubt on which God would even judge him after his death, he dared not think. His conviction was crumbling as it was- like a castle build upon pillars of song and sand. But to question the divine meant to doubt every choice the Janissary had made in his life from the day he had been born by the boy's sacrifice.

And so he shut off the whispers of his own traitorous mind and armored himself in false beliefs. Beliefs that the Corps' loyalty was more than just lip service to king and god and country. Beliefs that the boy hadn't died in vain so a broken man could live. And belief that, at the end of the day, his choices actually mattered.

One last time the whetstone struck the steel, before being thrown away into the darkness. The sound of it hitting the ground far below never reached the Janissary's ears. Sword sheathed and mind steeled, the soldier was off to do the only thing he knew. Kill in someone else's name, for someone else's cause. The Corps had failed through the years- or at least the man tried to convince himself so. Corruption was rampant amongst them, original purpose long forgotten. They had turned into the very thing they had hated, if not even worse. They spilt blood in the name of a God they didn't believe in, for a ruler none of them truly considered worth any loyalty to.

Kingslaying was the last sin they needed to their name. And if it meant that betrayal was the only way to save his family, then so be it. It was a fool's compromise- to break your vows to keep them- but it was the only way he saw. The Janissary headed towards his lord's chambers, stride tensed and mind in silent prayer to whatever God was willing to listen:

"_Let me be on time."_

He felt like a ghost trapped amidst the palace walls. The moon was his only companion through that royal maze, its milky light spilling across the marble floor and showing him the way. His footsteps, a soldier's stride drilled into him throughout the years, sent an even echo reverberating throughout the chilly night air. The lack of guards made his fears grow. The Janissary didn't know how many of his brethren were part of the conspiracy. But the very fact that not a single sentry could be glanced from one end of the palace to the other spoke volumes. His heart almost leapt with joy upon hearing the distant din of battle.

It meant there was still a chance to prevent the mistake before it had happened, sweep his brothers' sins and hide them away. His steps quickened along with his heartbeat. A smile crept on the Janissary's face. He knew battle. He knew it the way a husband knew his wife, a father knew his child. To a man sworn never to take a wife and father any children, the symphony of clashing steel was the only maiden's song allowed. The Janissary loosened his sword in the scabbard, hand clutching the handle in readiness. He was almost running now, all discipline forgotten as the battle-haze started clouding his mind.

Four corners left-three… two. One.

The Janissary's polished boots ground to a halt as he turned the last corner. The sickly glow of the moon was absorbed by all the blood splattered across floor and walls. It was the wretched white of spoilt milk, the blood of ghosts if they could bleed. The scattered bodies were monuments to their owners' last moments in life. Some men had been clearly stuck where they had been standing. Others still clutched their weapons in hand, their flesh now as cold as the steel they had wielded. Dozens of empty eyes stared accusingly into thin air- and he didn't dare meet the gaze of a single one. He couldn't tell usurpers from loyalists. All the man saw were brothers slain by brothers.

The would-be kingslayers were slowly advancing towards the sultan's chambers, like predators on a prowl. There was no outward emotion evident on their faces- only the grim stares of steel and scorn of war-hardened man. The last two defenders were hesitantly drawing back towards the double doors, each one of their steps a countdown to their downfall. It was a mockery of a waiting game. The Janissary drew his sword. There were no words- only the sound of steel unsheathed, like a whip tearing the silence in two.

The defenders glanced at him warily, afraid to allow hope enter their hearts lest their souls be crushed even more. The usurpers glared at him with uncertainty, saw him more as a pest than a true inconvenience. He hated that look. The man didn't know why it was that of all things which sent his blood boiling, wake some inner beast inside of him who wanted to wipe them all out. Two split from the main group and charged him with swords raised above their heads. They were shouting something- were they threats or questions, he didn't know nor care. The blood haze had already clouded his mind, eyes glued to the glistening steel of his opponents' weapons. Be it one against two or one against ten, it mattered not for the Janissary.

The ones he was facing had never paid the price of blood. The moon revealed the faces of people born masters. Second sons bribed into the Corps to reap the benefits, men who had never known the bloody caress of a whip upon their back and the threat of punishment stemming solely from your ancestry. Soldiers without discipline, warriors without training- pests to be uprooted from the ranks of his true brethren. Whatever hesitance the Janissary had felt, it was gone.

The man kicked up a fallen halberd off the floor and met the twin downward strikes of his opponents with both ends. The muscles of his arms strained, his legs groaned from all the sudden pressure, but he stayed strong. Pushing them back, the Janissary brandished his weapon and forced them to pull back. The trio fell into the rhythm of a deadly dance. They lunged, he parried- he struck, they ran. As much as he hated wasting precious time, the Janissary knew his best chance was waiting for an opening. Thankfully, his enemies proved more impatient than him. A third one split from the group and hefted his pistol. The Janissary lunged forward just as the other two tried pulling back to clear their ally's line of sight. The flintlock spat out lead like a roaring dragon spewing fire. It grazed his shoulder, but to the Janissary it was naught more than a bee's sting.

The fleeing usurper's blade ended up caught by the halberd's edge and swung aside. The leaf-shaped tip slashed across his throat, crimson beads followings its trail in the moonlight. The shooter started hastily reloading and the other swordsman moved on the offensive. The Janissary barely moved out of the way and spun around, sweeping his enemy off his feet with the halberd. Before the would-be kingslayer had tried getting up, he found himself with a spear stuck into his chest. The shooter readied to aim once again but the Janissary's thrown dagger was faster. It had barely grazed the other man- but it had been enough. Precious few seconds were bought, in which the Janissary had picked up his sword and charged forward.

One swift strike- and the shooter's hand was arcing through the air. Another strike- and his head followed it, eyes bulged out in silent terror. Three more men lunged at him at the same time, weapons at the ready. The clash of swords echoed through the palace's halls. Back and forth and back again- the Janissary lunged and parried, careful not to get surrounded. One of his attackers lagged behind, wounded shoulder slowing him down. The Janissary switched his focus to him- a hurricane of blows meant more to overpower than to outmaneuver. A diagonal slash, from thigh to shoulder, was his enemy's demise.

The other two panicked, fear starting to creep through their minds despite the boiling of their blood. The lone duo defending the sultan's chambers gathered courage and hope and attempted to push the four rebels back. The Janissary felt the taste of victory caressing his lips and darted forward, sword raised.

And then, just as swiftly and surprisingly as it had appeared, that grain of hope was torn asunder.

The Janissary stopped into his tracks and barely managed to counter his inertia. It had been more on instinct than anything else- a sense of self-preservation honed for millennia and passed from one generation to the next. His heart skipped a beat, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge- and a blade arced through the air where his neck would've been if he hadn't managed to stop.

Out of nowhere, as if born amidst darkness and moonlight, a cloaked figure appeared. It clutched a twisted dagger in a hand colored deep bronze- the only feature visible from beneath its pitch-black mantle. It was more a shade than a man. Two golden eyes stared from a gap in its face-concealing veil, boring burning holes through the Janissary's soul. He couldn't see its mouth and yet he had the sinking feeling the creature was smirking.

The Janissary let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. His heart was racing still, but it was for a different reason now. Courage slowly twisted into treacherous fear with each second their gazes remained locked. The Shade reminded him of sleepless nights and gruesome tales around crackling fires. Stories which had made the Boy cringe and the Man laugh, but they were stories just the same. Fairytales meant to scare children into behaving and provide a laugh or two for the adults who told them. Vagaries of fantasy meant to exist only in the reality of a child's imagination.

That… _thing_ before him- it was no mere story come to life. It was Death in flesh and bones, sent to stop him.

The Janissary accepted the challenge of whatever God he had angered (both of them, perhaps) and steadied his shaking hands. He lunged once again. And again. And _again_. Twice and thrice more even, after that. He attacked with fervor and zeal, called upon skills drilled into him through years and years of rigorous training. The Shade stopped all of his strikes with ease, armed with just a dagger and a look of boredom in its burning eyes. The Janissary wanted to shout and curse in anger. He wanted to just punch that infernal spectre and at least make it react with something more than a swift parry and acid condemnation. The man felt being judged and had the creeping suspicion he was being found wanting.

Once more the Janissary swung his curved blade and put all his anger and fury and scorn into it.

His strike was effortlessly parried but he pushed farther still, freed one hand from the handle and sent his punch flying towards the Shade's face. The spectre's vicious slap sent him reeling.

"If you so insist on acting like a child, I will treat you accordingly."

The Shade's words, so alien precisely because they sounded so human, struck him harder than any hit. The Janissary's breath was ragged and he could feel his limbs growing heavier by the second. The last guards were once more on the defensive, barely holding the attackers back. And that thrice-cursed spectre just stood there, cutting off his path. He felt five again, watching as his whole world was being torn apart.

The death screams of the loyalists reverberated inside the spacious corridors, and before even their echoes had ended, the Janissary darted onwards. Flipping his sword into a back-handed grip he struck sideways, fully expecting his hit to be caught. The Shade didn't disappoint and prepared to push him back- only for the man to twist around him, keeping his sword in-between. The Janissary seemingly darted towards the sultan's chambers, anticipating the spectre's reaction. The Shade lunged at his back, dagger poised to strike. Picking a broken spear's handle up, the Janissary pirouetted back, reflecting the blow. His right hand, sword still tightly gripped in it, flew towards the Shade and carved a crimson gash through its chest.

The spectre recoiled back, shock clearly evident in golden eyes. And then, just as its bronze flesh stitched itself back, the Janissary's triumph turned into terror. All sound suddenly disappeared from the world, as if he had gone deaf at the blink of an eye. The Shade threw away its dagger and unsheathed a sword of its own. For the first time in their duel, the creature took the offensive.

And, amidst the deafening silence, the Janissary realized his life was forfeit.

The first strike knocked away his weapon. The second almost sliced both his hands off when he tried to defend his head. The third was with the pommel to his temple, making him see the stars outside on the inside of his reeling mind. The Shade threw him back like a ragdoll just when the usurpers swung open his master's chambers. The Janissary, despite the entire world still spinning around him, tried to get up. The Shade wasn't about to have any of it, though- it poised its sword to strike into the fallen one's heart. The Janissary's wandering hand miraculously found the spectre's own dagger just in time. He couldn't block the strike- not even on his best day perhaps- but he redirected it, making tempered steel pierce shoulder instead of heart.

The Shade straddled him, pushing the sword even further through him and into the tiles- effectively nailing him to the bloodstained floor. The spectre removed its veil, revealing a razor-sharp grin of moon-white teeth.

"I thought-for a moment- that I have found a diamond in the rough. Alas, your glitter turned out to be fake, young one."

The spectre's grin grew wider- and dark blood, thick and heavy, spilt out and onto the Janissary's face. It burned like wildfire, like a thousand bees stinging him at the same time, like being salted whole after a flaying. Tears flowed from his now only eye as the man felt the right side of his face _melt_. His screams never left his mouth- the spectre clamped it shut, as if to save itself the annoyance of listening.

Never- _ever_- before, did the Janissary desire life, merely the right to breathe and walk and _exist_, this much.

His free hand somehow found itself grasping the Shade by the scruff of its neck. Surprise hadn't even yet registered in golden eyes when the man pulled it down and yanked himself up, headbutting the spectre with all his might. It was sent reeling back, confusion marring a predator's face. The Janissary removed the sword from his shoulder and stared down the fallen beast. And then, with a shout rivaling a dragon's roar and blade dragged across the tiles in a shower of sparks, the Janissary lunged forward-

-Only to strike nothing but air as the Shade disappeared from sight, moving at such speeds it seemed it was fast-forwarding time.

"It seems you were not a waste of time after all."

Its teeth were on his neck in a heartbeat- and thirteen more after, he had no more blood to shed.

The Shade's vitae whispered promises of second chances and redemption assured.


End file.
